Make Me Your One And Only But Don't Make Me Your Enemy
by aracelymercerchandler
Summary: So Aracely thinks she wants to play with magic? She'd better be sure because Severus Snape is coming at her like a dark horse. Severus SnapexOC oneshot OOC Severus Snape


I pass an uncomfortable night tossing and turning, wild fantasies of further encounters mingling with feverish memories of what really happened. I revel in the soreness of my arse, rubbing it chafingly against the bedclothes to prolong it, wanting to keep it as a permanent proof that Snape really did spank me in the dungeons. And the rest. Mmmm. If only he had gone further…I bring myself over the edge time and again, burning up with the frustration of my longings. The thought that it will never happen again drives me to despair. The fantastic wicked pleasure of it is barbed around with less welcome fears of having been used, being despised, being ignored again. In short, I don't know whether I'm coming or going… I am dismayed to see the redness already fading from my backside when I check it in the bathroom mirror on Sunday morning, though there is some glorious bruising on the inner sides of my cheeks which should be in evidence for a few days. Oh, the sweet pain. Oh, Professor Snape. I close my eyes and clutch the sink, a wave of pure need washing over me. "How'd it go last night?" chirrups Babette brightly as I enter the Common Room on the way to breakfast. "Oh…you know. Grim. Cleaning cauldrons without magic." "Is that all? Come on, I can see that something went on. What did he say?" "NOTHING!" I snap at her. "He's just a bastard. A sexy bastard. But a bastard. Drop it." Babette's face registers concern, but I ignore it and march on to breakfast. Which is…. Oooooooohhhhhhhhhh, goooooooooods. I drop down on the wooden bench – wince! – and cannot stop myself looking over at Snape's chair. The heaving swirliness in my chest and stomach immediately kills my appetite. I am sitting on a divinely ouchy behind, and it is all his fault. I think I'm in love. With that man there, sipping lugubriously at some coffee. Or is it tea? Helping himself to a sausage and making some comment to Flitwick. He's looking over! Breathe, Clara, breathe! "Clara, are you sure you're OK? You look as if you've seen a Dementor." "I'm….fine. Bab, I think I'm…in love." "What?" "I…ah…I'm going to the infirmary. I feel faint." I stagger to my feet and head down to the tender mercies of Madam Pomfrey and a dose of Pepper-Up Potion. I've got Arithmancy Paper 2 tomorrow; I can't be in love right now. As a heavy week of NEWTs drags on, the whole Snape thing seems to shrink in perspective, as if it were just a dream. I barely see him except at mealtimes in the Great Hall; mostly I am in the library or the Common Room or pretending not to revise down at the lakeside. "He loves me not," a malicious daisy petal tells me, and I toss the flower aside, realising with a jolt of alarm that the bell is tolling curfew and I have three minutes to make the ten minute journey back to the castle. I grab my book bag and scramble up the grassy bank, hoping upon hope I can sneak in through the kitchen door or the greenhouses, which are generally the last to be warded shut. Otherwise I have to ring the main entrance and risk a tongue-lashing from whichever staff members are on duty. Not so bad if it's Sprout or Flitwick, but McGonagall or Snape (oh Snape! Oh l'amour!) are a different story. Detention-mad, the pair of 'em. The kitchens are locked, but hallelujah, the greenhouses are still accessible, and I make my stealthy way along the rows of plant pots, taking care to keep clear of the more dangerous seedlings and making a dash for the door connecting the Herbology classrooms with the main castle. Yay! Now I have to get back to the Common Room before Filch crops up. I pitter-patter along towards the lobby and take a sharp left past the foot of the Slytherin Tower and onwards to beloved Ravenclaw, Home and Duty. Almost there, sharp right, I can see the stairs…. "Oooh….noooo…Professor….Snape," I moan almost inaudibly. His black hair flips around his face as he swings his head sharply to look at me. His expression relaxes when he sees it is me and he takes deliberate and graceful steps over to me, stopping just short of me so I have to look up at his face. How can such an attractive man be so frightening? How can such a frightening man be so attractive? "Out after curfew, Miss Branson?" "So it would seem." Is there some kind of smart-mouth jinx on me? Catching Snape's look of incredulity at my insane remark, I embark on immediate damage limitation with a humble, "Sorry, Sir." "Are you? Are you really?" My nerves tingle and I am filled with a giddy hope that he will drag me down to the dungeons and spank me right away, prior to deflowering me and then proposing. "If I'm not, I'm sure you'll make me," I say cheekily, daring a little pout. He snakes a hand out and grasps my wrist. Very tightly. Ouch. "Very brave," he decides, "and very foolish." Kiss me! But he doesn't. He leans down and murmurs in my ear, "As before, Miss Branson, seven o'clock, Saturday." Then he swishes off, leaving me to take the Ravenclaw Tower stairs three at a time, yipping and punching the air. He loves me. I almost run to the dungeons when the appointed hour arrives; as you can imagine, every second that hasn't been stuffed full of NEWT agony has been spent previewing this meeting in lurid detail. NEWTs are finally over and we have a week of dolce far niente until the end of term. Only one more week of Snape; every time I see him I am trying to breathe him in, to ingest him so that I can bring out a vivid memory of him at will once I am gone from here. The office door is closed. I knock, half-fearful, half-excited. "Enter." I push it open nervously and get a splendid eyeful of black-clad menace, marking parchments behind the desk. He does not look up but continues to scribble. I stand in the doorway for a few seconds, then take myself on tiptoe over to the danger zone. "Professor," I open hesitantly. He puts up a hand, without ever looking up, indicating that I am to wait in silence until he has finished. This situation drags on for a good five minutes, giving me ample time to review my position and consider flight. As, of course, is his intention. Way to wage psychological warfare, Sir! I drift off into contemplation of a tricky question on yesterday's Ancient Runes paper and start slightly when Snape lays down his quill, sits back in his chair and says, "Well, then, Miss Branson." "Yes, Sir?" "After our last encounter, it was my hope that you had resolved to improve your behaviour. However, it would seem that the punishment you received was insufficient in this regard. I appear to be dealing with an incorrigible rulebreaker, Miss Branson. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Yeah, take me now. But I don't say that, obviously. It would spoil the tone of the performance. This is pure theatre, after all. So I stay in role and mumble, "I won't do it again, Sir." "No, Miss Branson." He rises and inserts himself into my personal space. "You won't do it again. Because I am taking you in hand, young lady. I mean to take a personal interest in your conduct around the school." "Oh. That's very….altruistic…of you. Sir." "Yes, isn't it? So. For breaking curfew, how do you think you should be punished, Miss Branson?" Oh gods, don't ask me! I can't say it out loud. I dither for a moment or two, provoking him to wrench my chin up and press, "Miss Branson?" What the hell? Might as well go for broke. "I deserve a good spanking!" My words echo ringingly around the office and I giggle with embarrassment. "Yes, that is not in doubt, Miss Branson, but my concern is that you responded to your previous punishment with further rulebreaking. Spanking you appears to be less effective than I had foreseen." Don't say that! Dismayed at the prospect of being set an essay or the dreaded cauldron-cleaning, or something similarly unarousing, I blurt, "Perhaps you should spank me harder." As soon as I have said the words, I wonder how it could even be possible for a spanking to be harder than the last one. Oh dear. The shadow of a smile threatens his lips and he raises his eyebrows at me. Swoon. "Harder, Miss Branson? Well, it is for your own good, after all. Very well." He indicates the desk. "Assume the position," he intones, with almost parodic crispness of enunciation. I lunge forward, embracing the hard surface with nostalgic fondness. I have braided my hair into two plaits today and charmed up the hem of my pleated skirt until it is daringly brief. This is not lost on Snape, who murmurs, "Brazen girl," as he raises the garment to my middle, tucking it into my waistband out of the way. "You will be taught a lesson." He lowers my knickers and lingers over my pale moons once more, fully recovered to milky whiteness. In the same manner as last time, he graduates from polite swats to roundly ringing slaps to hard, fast, pitiless smacks that rain down without any predictable pattern and cause me to jerk about and make fruitless attempts to shield my bum from the blistering assault. My writhings are commented on – "The more you squirm, the harder I will be" – but Snape clearly has no intention of letting up until he is good and ready. He seems to have taken my suggestion to spank harder to heart, though I would not have thought it possible. Twenty minutes in I am gasping with the sizzling heat and soreness, and I plead for him to stop. "Please, Sir, I can't take any more," I whimper. "Then this is just beginning to work," he says unbendingly, adding a yowlworthy fusillade of blows to the total. "It…really…HURTS!" I protest, knowing in advance what his reply to that will be. "It's meant to." Yep. Thought so. "I'll be good! I've learned my lesson! Please, Sir!" "Let's see, shall we?" Snape stops and I sigh deeply, feeling the fierce throb in my buttocks as a pleasurable sensation now that I no longer fear that it will never end. The blissful letdown does not last long, though, as he repairs straightaway to his cauldron full of wooden stirrers. "Oh, Sir, please don't!" Tears fill my eyes as he returns to the desk, weapon in hand, jaw set in grim determination. There will be no diverting him from his mission, I can see. "You have learned your lesson, you say? And what was that lesson?" "Not to break the rules," I hiccup. "What about obedience and respect for Professor Snape? Have you learned those?" "Yes, Sir, I have, honestly." "So if I say I think you need to count twenty strokes of this implement here, you will respect my decision? Is that so?" The fight leaves my body. I can't answer that, can I? It's so unfair! "That's not fair!" "So you don't respect my decision? Which confirms that I am right to punish you further. As before, you will count and thank me when I have finished. Is that clear?" "Yes, Sir," I mope almost inaudibly. "I can't hear you, Miss Branson," he cautions, laying the flat end of the stirrer against my raging cheeks. "Yes, Sir," I say hostilely. Well, he can't make it any worse, can he? "Do you need extra strokes for poor attitude, Miss Branson?" Oh, he can. "No, Sir," – in a considerably subdued tone. Let's get it over with, then. Swish, pistol-shot, yelp, "One, Sir." He can't mean to give me twenty of these. But he does. By the end I am a tear-streaked, shaking, lip-chewed, soundly-thrashed mess, incapable of moving from my prone position, my head strangely elsewhere, drifting around in a new consciousness. I feel…released. I have been set free in a sea of pain. But the pain is sweet; it is a pain I need. I feel dizzily, stickily euphoric. I want to stay here….forever…. "Can you stand?" whispers Snape from behind me, sounding almost concerned. "Yeah," my voice floats around my head, distant from me. "But I'm quite happy here." "Miss Branson!" he says in a textbook command tone. He snaps his fingers in my ear. I take a sharp breath. "Mmm. Professor." He leans right down over me. I can feel his hair against my ear; oh, how heavenly. His lips, right on the lobe, wafting warm breath against my skin. I want to suck it up and keep it. "You won't be sitting comfortably for some time," he tickles, a note of rich satisfaction in his voice. And now his hands…there on my derriere… Every pore, every nerve ending there is itchingly sore yet so incredibly receptive to his touch. He strokes it, featherlight at first, then a little firmer, then taking pinching handfuls of flesh. Oh, yes, Professor, this all belongs to you. It is yours. At last the tip of a sensitive finger is making enquiries in my soaked entrance. I let out a little moan of delight. "Is this what you want?" he rasps into my ear and I answer him with an extended 'Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm', leaving him in no doubt. The finger invites a few others into the reception area and they take a little tour, admiring the décor and furnishings. Oh, they don't want to miss anything…no…they are very observant, nothing left unexamined. Especially the big fat cushiony nub at the centre, subjected to the most intense focus. Eeek. One of the fingers has moved on to the corridor beyond, invading the narrow passage so that I feel every probing movement. "You are so very wet, Miss Branson." Well observed, Professor. Another slender digit joins his mate in the corridor to heaven. They are moving fast, too fast perhaps, they don't know about the glass wall halfway down…. Bang, they stop, dazed at the impact. Snape's body rigidifies. "You're a virgin," he says. He withdraws the fingers, stands, pulls me upright and holds on to my arms, staring down at me. It takes a while for me to focus; I want to weep with frustration. "Yes!" I say defiantly. "Is that a problem?" He raises his eyebrows. Lets go of me, pulls up a chair opposite his, sits me down in it (BLOODY OUCH!), sits down facing me, holds my hands, earnest look. What am I supposed to have done now? "Cushion," I manage to grind out. "Of course, forgive me." He sticks a cushioning charm on my chair. "Miss Branson." "That's me." "I had no idea. That is, I had some idea. But I… I thought you must be more…worldly…than you look. To be reading that book." He seems seriously quite agitated. It is novel. "It doesn't matter, Sir," I say, full-beam eyes wide. "I wanted you to. I want you to." He shakes his head vigorously, as if trying to expel a fly from his ear. "Miss Branson, you are an unusual girl, but surely even you harbour the usual notion of moonlight and roses and…giving yourself…to…someone…special." Snape says all this as if it is a foreign language. "You're someone special," I whisper. "To me." He looks mortally wounded. "Don't be so… perverse." "Bit late for that." I risk a sly smile. He hides his face in his hands for long seconds. "I'm sorry, Professor, I didn't mean to traumatise you. But I asked for it all. It's what I wanted. You haven't forced me in any way. You can do what you like with me. I promise I'll enjoy it." "Miss Branson, I can't let you lose your virginity over my desk to a man who hasn't even kissed you." "Well, that's up to you." "It shouldn't be like that," he says, half to himself. What should it be like then? "It shouldn't be with a cynical old bastard like me." "Hey! I like cynical old bastards! Seriously, Professor, whether you pop my cherry or not, I'm pretty much doomed now to spend the rest of my life looking for a carbon copy of you. I can do it virgo intacta and become a bitter shrivelled old bag myself, or I can do it with a lovely memory of how I lost my virginity to keep me warm on cold nights. Perhaps it might keep you warm for a while as well." I give this speech as dispassionately as I can. He appreciates a rational approach, I think. "Ah, Miss Branson, you think you mean that, but you can't possibly know…" "DON'T tell me I'm too young to know my own mind! I'm a grown woman and I know what I want. I want you to take my virginity." Snape sits silently for a while, his eyes glittering at me. I have uncoiled the serpent in him, I surmise. I maintain my pose of challenge, chin thrust forward, eyes gleaming, mouth sternly set. "Very well," he says in measured tones. "As it's the end of term and I'm no longer technically your teacher, I suppose I could accommodate you. If you are serious." "I am serious." "You had better be." He gives me a warning nod that makes my heart flip. I want to scream with excitement. "But not here, and not now. After the Leavers Party. Friday night. Meet me here at midnight." "I'll be here, Sir," I whisper. "Good. Go now. Not a word to anyone, remember." I rise uncomfortably from the chair, glorying in the violent pulsing of my rear, which will remind me of him all week. Until Friday. Pinch me; surely I'm dreaming? 


End file.
